


In Which Phil is Made on an Op

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: AU-gust 2020 [15]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asset Phil Coulson, Gen, Handler Clint Barton, SHIELD agents - Freeform, reverse au, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: “Fuck,” Phil muttered, trying not to eye the exits too obviously.“All right there, Coulson?” His handler sounded amused, and Phil swore again in his head. He might be new to Level 4, but he had aspirations of being a cool and unflappable senior agent one day, and swearing under pressure wasn’t conducive to that goal.“Not particularly, sir,” he said, attempting to keep his voice level. “I’m pretty sure our informant sold us out. Either that or the dress code of this place just got a lot more deadly.”“Get out.” The voice in his ear was sharp. “Now.”
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson
Series: AU-gust 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870924
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	In Which Phil is Made on an Op

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 15, 2020 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/626548961263665152/au-gust-15-role-reversal-au)

“Fuck,” Phil muttered, trying not to eye the exits too obviously.

“All right there, Coulson?” His handler sounded amused, and Phil swore again in his head. He might be new to Level 4, but he had aspirations of being a cool and unflappable senior agent one day, and swearing under pressure wasn’t conducive to that goal.

“Not particularly, sir,” he said, attempting to keep his voice level. “I’m pretty sure our informant sold us out. Either that or the dress code of this place just got a lot more deadly.”

“Get out.” The voice in his ear was sharp. “Now. Side door, if you can.”

“Ten-four,” Phil said, starting to back away from the bar. The swanky party he’d been pulled for was supposed to be a simple info drop, a good excuse for Phil to practice his basic undercover work in foreign climes and wear the mouth-watering, tailored suit wardrobe had provided. He was armed (because of course he was), but not with nearly the firepower required for taking on the small army of Greek mafia hitmen currently filtering their way through the opulent ballroom.

He began slowly drifting toward the doors that would take him out of the ballroom near the hotel’s back exit, but three solid slabs of muscles with obvious shoulder holsters got there first.

Phil hummed under his breath and glanced at the kitchen, but trying to make his way through the catering staff would not be inconspicuous and besides, several men were already making their way over there to block the obvious exit.

He glanced around, quickly calculating his options. There was one route left open, and his window was closing fast. “Balcony, sir,” he said.

His handler swore quietly. “Go, Coulson.”

Phil abandoned subtlety. He hurried across the ballroom, mumbling excuses to the black ties and ballgowns he brushed past. The balcony ran the length of the ballroom and the French doors on that wall were open to let in the mild night air. It was also on the third floor with no points of egress, because apparently eccentric Athenian billionaires like to build their luxury hotels on top of hills and had lax approaches to safety standards.

No sooner had he made the balcony than a sharp thunk drew his attention. An arrow had buried itself in the stone just above the doorway he’d come through, a thin cord trailing from it over the railing and down into the darkness. “What the--?”

“Grappling arrow,” his handler said abruptly. “C’mon, Coulson, we don’t have all day.”

“How--?” Phil glanced back and saw that the mobsters had apparently figured where he was and were closing in fast.

His handler made an impatient noise. “Your tie is kevlar reinforced, isn’t it? _Move_ , Coulson!”

“Right,” Phil breathed and reached for his tie. He fumbled it in his haste, but managed to pull it off. He wrapped one end around his left hand, took a deep breath, and climbed onto the railing.

He heard cries of surprise from the couples that had been enjoying a quiet evening on the balcony (apparently too engrossed to register the arrow landing, but not too engrossed to realize a man was about to jump) and shouts of anger from the goons, but he didn’t pay attention to any of that.

Instead, Phil had a moment of panic when he thought he’d lose his footing, but he managed to hold on long enough to toss the trailing end of his tie over the cord and wrap the end around his right hand.

He didn’t spare a glance for the henchmen behind him, just braced himself and jumped. He swore he felt a hand brush the back of his jacket, but then he was away, the bright lights and noise of the ballroom quickly falling behind him as he rushed headfirst into inky blackness.

At first, he screwed his eyes shut, but then the terror of _not_ knowing when he was going to hit something overcame the terror of _knowing_ , and he opened them again.

For a few hair-raising heartbeats, he didn’t see anything at all, then the outline of a tree approached with alarming speed, and he twisted out of the way just in time to avoid being attacked by branches.

He could see the tops of more trees coming toward him, and--

“Drop!” the voice in his ear barked, and Phil let go.

For an instant, he was sure he was going to die, then he hit a relatively soft surface. He looked up and saw his handler’s face in the thin moonlight, and he was reasonably sure that he wasn’t going to die.

“Jesus Christ, Coulson,” he said, reaching a hand down to help Phil up. “Don’t do that again; my blood pressure can’t handle it.”

“Sorry, Agent Barton,” Phil said, trying to look contrite as he climbed out of what he could now feel was a pile of damp leaves. “But I was a little limited in my options. You could take it up with Petrakis if you like,” he offered.

Barton snorted. “Oh, I’ll take something up with him,” he said darkly, and Phil would feel bad for their erstwhile informant, if he hadn’t just sold them out.

He registered the cold wet soaking through the back of his trousers and scrunched his face up in disgust. “I liked this suit, too,” he groused.

Barton laughed. “Very James Bond,” he agreed, amusement shining through every word. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” He put a hand on Phil’s shoulder and used it to steer him out of the forest in what Phil presumed to be the correct direction. “You did good, kid.”

As expected, Phil started to protest that he wasn’t kid - he was twenty-five and a goddamn spy, okay? - but he also kept the small warmth inside him that the words generated. He did good. His handler was proud of him. Phil was going to be the best goddamn spy in SHIELD one day, just wait and see.


End file.
